Page 34 of Devil

I swallow and then swallow again. My voice is still a thin whisper when I ask, “How long will I need to be at your…disposal?”

His stare grows harder, hotter. It’s not the kind of question you ask if you’re thinking about refusing flat out, and he knows it.

“A year,” he says.

“A year,” I echo. Not to confirm it with him, not to negotiate, but to test the weight of it, to hear how it sounds aloud. A year. A year for $360,000. A bit less than $1,000 a day.

I look into those pale angel eyes and silently run the numbers again—new numbers. The tally of future sins against my present circumstances. What is the greater transgression? What would God care about the most? The mostly untouched state of my body or my sister having a safe and unhungry future?

Am I my brother’s keeper?Cain asked God, but I’d never even been given the chance to ask the question, to contest it. I was born Busy’s keeper.

God can’t have it both ways. Either I can stay as I am, unwanted, unsullied, my loaves and fishes not multiplying no matter how hard I try, or I can burn that purity on an altar and hope one day the smoke ascends to Heaven. In other words, I can either take care of my soul or my sister…but not both.

Father Alvarez would have said to find another way, but I’ve already tried that, haven’t I? For the last seven years, for however many years before that, and ironically the man who made it almost impossible to earn an upright living is standing in front of me right now, offering me another way. Another horrible way.

Bell’s hand reaches up, and his thumb catches a tear on my cheek. “A year,” he repeats, his gaze on his now-slick thumb. “I’ll be thirty when it’s over, and it’ll be time to get serious about the rest of my life—starting my own firm, getting married, all that.” He saysgetting marriedlike I’m on the same page, like I should already know it’s on his to-do list along with dropping off his dry cleaning or answering a text from a cousin coming into town.

Does that mean there’s already someone he’d like to marry? Someone he’s dating now? Will I be a whoreanda mistress?

It’s so stupid that this has the power to bruise. Ryan Bell is standing in front of me laying out the terms for use of my body. It’s clear that I am a commodity to him, an object, and one meant for temporary use at that. I’m not a house. I’m not even a car. I’m just like…a pair of slippers. A bottle of cologne.

He laughed when I asked if he wanted to date me.

Strangely, though, his casual relating of his post-thirty plan centers me a little, puts me back on ground I’m more familiar with. Plans, timelines—in a bleak way, this isn’t so different from an art commission. I’ve done something like this before—less horrific, less soul destroying—but the rhythm is the same. Vision, compensation, timeline. Now I just need to ask about the limitations: height, width, weight, placement in the building, exposure to the elements, both the architectural context and the context of the other art around the carving.

“Free use,” I say, relieved that my voice is a little stronger. “How will you use me then? What will you do to me?”

I’m grateful that he seems to know what I’m asking because I don’t know if I’d be able to make myself elaborate. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and there’s a flush coming up under his suntanned cheeks, but his voice is calm and fluid, and the words come without breaks or seams. He’s clearly thought about all this before.

“My job is stressful, so I plan on making use of you before and after work. Probably more than once if we’re talking about after work. If I work from home that day, I’ll make use of you then too. Your hands, mouth, and cunt will be available to me always. I enjoy anal sex, but I promise I’ll work you open first and use plenty of lube. And I?—”

It’s his first hesitation. He doesn’t pull his hands from his pockets, but I sense that he wants to gesture, like his hands can convey what his words can’t.

“Sometimes I like hurting the people I have sex with,” he finally states simply.

He nods with a serious expression when I flinch.

“Yes, you should know this before you agree,” he says. “I don’t harm the people I have sex with. I don’t injure them. I won’t cut you or leave deep contusions. I won’t break bones, and I don’t do scars or anything that risks neurological or esophageal trauma. I won’t risk long-term nerve damage with anything we do.”

I have no idea what to make of such medically drawn boundaries. Of the depth of thought that’s gone into them.

“If you’re wondering about the kind of hurting I like, I like to leave shallow bruises on bottoms and thighs from spanking and paddling and potentially welts on an upper back from flogging. I like to bite.” He makes himself sound like a bad dog. “As for thepushing…there are times when I enjoy fear. I like cajoling or bullying, depending on what boundary I’m trying to shove past. I like transgression. I like violation. I like seduction—but the bad kind.” A pause. “I have always been very careful about this part of myself, but with you, I’d like to be less careful. I’ve planned it that way at least.”

So much of him looks casual and effortlessly glossy with his pocket watch and pleated trousers—Old Hollywood clothes—and the perfectly styled hair, the hands in his pockets. But the way his eyes glint and his chest moves under his short-sleeved sweater is anything but casual.

“Can I say no?” I ask. “If you want to do something I don’t want to do or if I want to stop, can I say no?”

“You can leave at any time,” he says agreeably. “And in the middle of anything.”

I hear the condition in his voice, though to his credit, I don’t think he’s trying to hide it. “But then I can’t come back.”

He nods. “I’ll make sure that you are paid what you’re owed up to that point. An incentive for you to continue when you feel like you’re at your limit. The longer you stay, the more you’ll get for Busy.”

“I just—I haven’t been with anyone since…” I exhale. “Well, ever, really. That time at Evelyn with you, it’s been the only time.”

When I dare a look at him, his eyes glitter. “I’d guessed.” His voice is low and his jaw is tight. “I guessed as much.”

“I’ll need you to be patient with me.” It comes out quick, blurted. “It will be new for me, and I won’t know what I’m doing or how to do it in a way you’d like.”